


you alone will have the stars as no one else has them

by thebetterbina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Harry, Consensual Underage Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Harry Potter is Not a Horcrux, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter is a Brat, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Harry is a Little Shit, Illustrations, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Top Tom Riddle, Underage Sex, art by noni so altogether now say thank you noni, i worked really hard on this fic i hope all of you know that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 14:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: Harry's never had someone smile so nicely at him before. There’s always a look of disdain or disgust, or maybe something in between the two whenever the adults in his life look at him. The stranger doesn’t do any of that, only smiles, then asks if Harry wants a better life.Harry, who’s only known his cold tiny cupboard, who barely knows what a full meal is like. Harry, who’s been told to never trust strangers—but this man can’t be a stranger, he knows Harry’s name.The stranger asks if Harry wants a better life, and who can fault a little boy for saying yes?Lily and James Potter die, but their son doesn't become fate's latest casualty.A story of reprieve.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 25
Kudos: 721





	you alone will have the stars as no one else has them

**Author's Note:**

> heavy duty beta done by my wife, partner, love of my life [liz ♡](https://twitter.com/lizardayo) thank you for supporting me through this entire journey of screaming and tears and picking me up every time i felt like giving up ヽ(愛´∀｀愛)ノ
> 
> mini beta thanks to rosie, bella, and everyone else i screamed at along the way
> 
> enjoy

* * *

_ He was the loveliest born of the race of mortals, and therefore _

_ the gods caught him away to themselves, to be Zeus' wine-pourer, _

_ for the sake of his beauty, so he might be among the immortals. _

_ — Homer, Iliad _

* * *

Harry is five when he sees the man.

He's tired and dirty, with sweaty palms and soil between his tiny fingers. He feels the dirt under his nails, and the uncomfortable stick of the hand-me-down shirt against his back. The sun beating unforgiving rays on him, his skin prickles under the strain and heat. The bed of the flower's Aunt Petunia asked him to do is only half complete, little buds peeking out under the freshly dug soil with more rows he has to painstakingly work on.

The stranger appears rather suddenly, and Harry struggles to hide himself away when the man stops at the picket fence in front of the Dursleys home. Uncle Vernon never liked the idea of Harry being in front of anyone, and Harry has dutifully hidden himself away from any prying eyes up to this point. The stranger doesn’t move, however, he simply watches, standing between the outer fence and very clearly  _ looking _ at Harry—yet not making a move to so much as touch the gate.

He’s attractive, certainly, that’s true enough. Harry knows he likes certain faces better than his pudgy uncle and horse-faced aunty. This stranger is handsome as he smiles, gently—and isn’t that strange for a little boy? He’s never had someone smile so  _ nicely _ at him before. There’s always a look of disdain or disgust, or maybe something in between the two whenever the adults in his life look at him. The stranger doesn’t do any of that, only smiles, then asks if Harry wants a better life.

(His voice is rich, deep, rolling thunder in the distance with promise of a storm to come.)

Harry, who’s only known his cold tiny cupboard, who barely knows what a full meal is like. Harry, who’s been told to never trust strangers—but this man can’t be a stranger, he knows Harry’s name. The stranger asks if Harry wants a better life, and who can fault a little boy for saying yes?

The stranger has red eyes, pretty like rubies, rubies like the one’s glittering behind store windows on the days the Dursleys actually deign to bring him out. He remembers Aunt Petunia would moan about how beautiful they were, but so horribly out of their budget Uncle Vernon would grumble about overpriced jewels.

Harry’s feet take him over the boundary of the house, small hands gripping the gate and slipping past; the stranger offers his hand, so much like prince charming in those fairytales Aunt Petunia would read to Dudley, and just like those runaway princesses—Harry takes it without question.

Harry is five when he disappears from the world.

* * *

He’s had to watch the boy being abused.

He’s heard the screams, the cutting words, seen glimpses of the tiny cupboard, and knows exactly what starvation looks like. After all, he’d been there, in those same shoes—but where Tom had spat, bit back, growled and glared; this meek, tiny child accepts. He takes the cruel words, takes the unnecessary chores, gets punished and pushed around by his useless pig of a cousin and suffers for it.

It infuriates him. Though he finds himself more angry at Albus Dumbledore than anything.

Time does things to a person, mellows them out—where once panic had driven him to murder the Potters and aim for their child, now he looks at the boy and only thinks to himself how pitiful he is. So small, defenseless, and yet with a heart of enough shining gold, tiny fingers would so tenderly care for each budding seed in a garden that had yet to bloom.

(He sends Nagini, just to test, see what would the child do—and Tom is further surprised when Nagini comes back, loudly declaring him her hatchling, her own.)

The decision shouldn’t have surprised anyone. He’s had five years to consider his options, and Tom isn’t sure how plotting the murder of some no-name prophecy boy suddenly became something … more. So he makes his decision, plots the necessary steps.

And when the boy is five, with intelligent bright eyes and smart mouth to match, he makes his move.

* * *

Albus doesn’t notice, not until he begins to realize the reports from Arabella have stopped. Weeks stretch to months, unanswered owls returning to their perch, before he decides on an impromptu visit to the rather wayward elderly Squib.

He only finds her body. 

She’s preserved like a cruel joke but very clearly dead, slumped over her chair. The cats are gone, most likely having found their own way out after realizing their mistress would no longer provide for them. 

The wards around Privet Drive are down, but they weren’t brought down with force considering the alarms never rang, and the infuriating relatives of the boy don’t seem bothered by the fact that months before, their young nephew had gone missing from their lawn.

There’s not even a Muggle police report on the missing child.

Albus isn’t able to keep the news under wraps. It takes one accidentally overheard conversation and the Wizarding World erupts into outrage. 

Their Boy Who Lived, gone.

* * *

Malfoy Manor is kept under layers of protection and heavy blood wards, keyed to specific members of the family and only allows a handful to reside as recognized guests. The Manor is  _ alive _ with family magic, her walls thrum with age and her pulse rings along the walls—Harry decided long before that he loved her, and strangely enough, the Manor decided she loved him just as much. 

His first few days were spent in tepid fear and wonder, clinging after Tom like a frightened puppy. The new people he meets have strange faces to a young five-year-old, and he’s quickly overwhelmed by many things. Yet the man makes no complaints, scoops Harry up and hugs him tight when Harry finds himself close to tears at any point in the day—shushing him with soothing murmurs and soft strokes against his back.

When Harry gets comfortable enough he tries to wander alone, small palm against the wall, following the whispers of the portraits that seem to have taken a liking to the young raven-haired boy. They compliment his eyes,  _ oh how they glitter like the finest emeralds _ , and the boy flushes red as they titter in mirth. 

The Manor isn’t resistant to his exploration. Instead, she opens up like a willing, blooming flower; silently guiding him to hidden spots—special little locations Lord Malfoy swears were only ever opened to other more favored generations of Malfoys. Harry tells Tom about the room full of gold he’s found, and one filled with nothing but spoons; Tom only listens with a genial smile, stroking Harry’s back until he’s tired enough to fall asleep against the man.

Most of Harry's days are filled with nothing but quiet exploration, his legs carrying him to fill out the inches of uncharted territory. He grows bolder every day, more curious, and doesn't question how Tom and Lord Malfoy are the only two people he's allowed to see while exploring the hallways. Sometimes he sees Lady Malfoy, but she usually walks another way when she catches sight of Harry—and Harry doesn't bother chasing her.

Harry doesn’t see other children. 

Sometimes he asks Tom about meeting new people, but then Tom would frown, stroke Harry’s cheek—ask him if Tom wasn’t enough and Harry is more eager to please Tom than he is willing to satisfy his own curiosity. 

Abusive relatives do that to you, they carve a hole in you—make you desperate enough to fill it with whatever kind of love you can get your hands on.

* * *

Harry learns he likes certain things.

Harry likes kisses.

He likes them peppered across his face, giggles because they tickle. Harry laps up affection, soaks it up like a sponge. Always willing, terribly shy but never pushing Tom away.

Harry likes Nagini.

He likes her scales, pretty and shimmering, her curious eyes and the ever flicking tongue in Harry’s direction. 

Harry likes it when Tom speaks in Parseltongue.

Granted, he doesn’t understand the language—but he does learn to like listening to the easy sibilance rolling off his tongue.

Harry likes Tom.

He likes his strong arms, the way Tom could hug him and suddenly Harry would feel protected from the world. He likes Tom’s voice, low and soothing, always a soft murmur Harry can easily find himself melting against.

Harry likes a lot of things.

* * *

“But I don’t  _ want _ to!” The boy’s face is scrunched up in frustration, frown pulling on his lips—Lucius remembers Draco was much the same, kicking up a fuss and showing displeasure in the most horrid ways. Harry is no different it seems, clinging onto their Lord like a lifeline, head stubbornly tucked into the crook of his head.

It’s a jarring sight. Tell Lucius a few weeks ago Lord Voldemort would be stuck raising The Boy Who Lived and he might have just broken a rib from laughing too hard.

“ _ Harry _ .” His Lord’s voice is a deceptively gentle thing, stern but not filled with the usual scorn he has when addressing a Death Eater. 

The child stops sniffling, turning to pout instead, petulance having found itself in spades. 

“I’ll be gone for the day. Lady Malfoy will take care of you, you will be good. Do you understand me?”

The pitiful child looks on the verge of tears again, lips wobbling and fat globs of water pooling at the corners of his eyes. Yet still, the raven-haired boy nods, reluctant, but head bowing in obedience.

He watches surprised, as his Lord presses a lingering kiss on the child’s forehead, and Harry appears to relax almost immediately. Lucius doesn’t remember ever doing the same to Draco, Narcissa handled all the coddling he’d needed as a boy.  Lucius can't even begin to speculate how Harry will turn out , being raised by a suspiciously capable Dark Lord.

“Good boy.” His Lord adds. 

It’s a strange sight to see the man smile.

* * *

Most people don’t know Tom was raised in an orphanage. 

Even after the name-calling and isolation, older children were still expected to tend to the younger ones. Tom knows how to deal with infants and toddlers. Young kids are easy to handle for him—he’s gotten plenty of experience watching the matrons and older sisters. Once he had the chance to practice himself, he finds delight in managing to talk the little ones out of tears, no threats or force necessary. 

Most don’t realize children aren’t stupid; they’re entirely capable of listening to logic as long as you simplified it, and were firm enough. 

It’s admittedly amusing watching the bewildered faces of his Death Eaters, all bug-eyed at the sight he makes walking around with the little boy on his arm, tucked under his chin. They don’t know that before  _ I am Lord Voldemort _ , Tom Marvolo Riddle had been entirely prepared to settle down to a life as a Professor at Hogwarts. 

But that is not his current predicament.

“ _ Nagini _ .”

A vaguely threatening hiss comes from under the piled blankets. Tom only manages a half sigh trying to remove the heavy duvet before the hisses increase in aggression.

“ _ Nagini. It’s me. _ ” He tries to be much firmer, wondering how he’s gotten reduced to pacifying his own familiar, finally managing to tug the thick cover off and watch the eyes of his snake blink—slow and lethargic, her heavy body in thick coils over a much tinier body. “ _ Nagini, you are suffocating him. _ ”

“ _ Nonsense, the little hatchling is fine. _ ” She returns with a huff, twisting her body to show the boy, still breathing deep and even. “ _ See? I kept my child safe. _ ”

“ _ You started hissing. At me. _ ”

“ _ I’ve hissed at everyone today. _ ”

“Tom?” 

Their attention is drawn to the curled up ball tucked under Nagini’s body. Harry stirs to sit up, eyes bleary and hair mussed from the impromptu nap in what Tom assumes is a makeshift nest Nagini had no doubt chided Harry to make. He watches his familiar move to nudge Harry, flicking a forked tongue against his cheek as he giggles, sweetly petting Nagini the entire time.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

“ _ Of course, my little one. _ ”

Harry doesn’t understand the language, the Parseltongue shared between him and his familiar something the boy will never be able to pick up on. And yet despite that, an understanding is still formed between them, Harry with his soft nature and Nagini loving anything warm and as sweet-smelling as Harry is. 

Harry turns his attention to Tom, arms held out expectantly, and he struggles not to smile at the sleepy child—carefully putting hands under the boy to hoist him up and into a comforting embrace, much to Nagini’s apparent ire. Her body trails along beside them, spitting curses towards  _ Tom _ of all people and he struggles not to feel betrayed by the fact.

  
“ _ You! Always taking my child! I should bite you. The little one would be sad, but he’d forgive me. Tom! Come back here with my hatchling _ —”

* * *

The Boy Who Lived becomes nothing more than a passing whisper, spoken in soft, sad, mournful tones—the Order is more despondent every day which passes that not a glimpse of the child is seen anywhere. Severus is more affected by the news than he lets on; while Potter spawn, the boy was still Lily’s, and his disappearance is an ache so similar to the one he’d felt the day he held her cold body in his arms.

On the day eleven-year-old children are to receive their Hogwarts’ letters, Harry Potter’s letter remains unsent—it’s a cause of personal grief, but it is also the day his Lord takes him aside to speak.

“You are one of my most trusted, Severus. I owe you this enough to show you my little … songbird.”

He snaps out of his daze to nod towards his Lord, acknowledging his words despite the fact they both knew for a very brief moment Severus had been distracted—his Lord only smiles, however, humored more than anything as Severus is led towards the upper unexplored floors of Malfoy Manor. 

As he understands it, a few years back their Lord ordered a portion of the Manor to be closed off; many had questioned the action then, but even Lucius was unwilling to speak about the subject. The man remained as tight-lipped as his wife about just what their Lord was keeping hidden away in the twisting corners of the Manor. It wasn’t as if anyone was allowed to test their theories anyway—strangely the Manor itself seemed adamant on keeping people away. More curious Death Eaters would find themselves back on the floor they started when they were sure they had climbed the steps up. 

Yet now, their Lord moves with an effortless grace, and a new passage that Severus makes a mental map of opens up for them. It’s not long before they stop in front of a door. 

It’s strangely plain, entirely average looking. With woodwork similar to the others found across Malfoy Manor, were anyone to make their way here and stumble across this, no doubt they’d overlook it.

He watches his Lord pause, fingers splayed across the brass knob. 

“Do trust not to terrify the child, will you Severus?”

Severus frowns but nods brusquely. “I will endeavor to do so.”

Then the door opens to an expanse of white.

Well that’s not exactly the truth, for a moment there’s a blinding white—then it settles and Severus realizes they’ve stepped into a meadow. 

An illusion. Severus knows from the heavy saturation of magic in the air, but a terrifyingly detailed one. He feels the soft padded grass as boots move from marbled floor to earth, can smell the wafting scent of morning dew and petrichor; birds fly overhead in an expanse of blue skies and he can’t see where the illusion should end when he looks across the distance. 

Severus’ breath catches when he sees a figure in the middle of the field.

There’s a child, small and visibly young, sitting among a bed of blooming flowers with their head canted down and working on what he thinks is a flower crown. A halo of hair, black as night, hangs in heavy tousles draped across a small frame. He thinks its a girl, and briefly his mind whizzes with the possibilities of who this child might be—a daughter of their Lord perhaps? Hidden and sequestered away, a weakness he didn’t want to be exploited. He runs through the possibilities of women their Lord might have bedded but the child looks up—

  


Severus suddenly struggles to breathe.

Those unmistakable vivid green eyes.

“Tom!”

The boy’s voice is cheerful, delight so evident in features that practically light up at the sight of their Lord who moves to embrace the running child. He has to watch Harry—Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Lily’s son— _ hug _ the Dark Lord. Peals of laughter falling from the squealing child, eager for affection that their Lord seems to give in spades. He watches  _ Lord Voldemort _ run careful hands across the head of raven hair and press a kiss, so sickeningly affectionate, to the top of Harry’s forehead.

Harry preens under the touch, shifting closer to press his face against their Lord, nuzzling a cheek against dark robes and the look of pure unadulterated adoration twists something uncomfortable in Severus. The ring of flowers held tight in smaller fingers moves to place the crown atop his Lord’s head—were it any other situation Severus would have found humor in the image, but fear remains heavy on his tongue.

“Harry, don’t be rude—greet our guest.”

It’s only then that the boy seems to notice Severus’ presence, and very quickly does Harry move to hide behind the body of Voldemort, peeking curious eyes but shying away. 

“Hello.” Timid and cautious, smaller fingers grasp tightly onto his Lord’s robes, the man in question only looking vaguely amused.

Severus doesn’t know how he’s going to bring the news back to Albus.

* * *

Harry never goes to school.

Tom doesn’t think he needs to, so instead, Harry learns from Tom and the books he brings. Harry’s a bright child, an even eager learner, and his special room always gives Harry what he requires. A bedroom when he’s tired, a meadow when he wants to play, a library when he wants to read, and a training room to practice spells. 

But most of all, Harry is eager to please Tom. Enjoys the head pats and congratulations when he masters a new spell, relishes the way Tom would smile— _ proud _ —whenever Harry managed to write a particularly well-articulated essay. 

Harry never gets a wand. He’d been curious about the ivory white of Tom’s yew, but the man always tells Harry he doesn’t need one. His magic responds beautifully to him, and to cast wandless is an infinitely better skill to have.

(He thinks to himself he’d like to though, Tom talks fondly enough about Hogwarts that Harry almost wishes he could walk along the same hallways Tom did—Tom presses a kiss on his forehead, promises on his magic one day Harry will.)

So Harry doesn’t go to school. It’s not a problem anyways, he’s bounds ahead of other students his age considering Tom is a talented educator.

* * *

Harry is twelve when he decides on his own to slip out of the room. 

* * *

Draco knows there’s something special hidden in the upper floors. His father and mother act suspicious enough, and Uncle Severus can’t even look Draco in the eye when he asks what the Dark Lord keeps. He’s twelve, young and frighteningly curious, the Slytherin qualities in him know better than to ask but he’s still a child above everything.

So he peeks.

He finds it funny how the hallways seemed to rearrange themselves, laughing when other Death Eaters got lost because they tried to go upstairs but found themselves somewhere else instead. The family magic was strange that way, bending to Malfoy bloodline and apparently protecting this mysterious thing too.

(Briefly, he wonders about an illegitimate child. After all, that would explain why the Malfoy Manor herself seemed so desperate to keep people away—right?)

So he takes a few steps up, testing the magic and pleased to find that there's no resistance. He slips into the hallway easily enough and begins exploration. 

Which really would have been fine and all, until he catches sight of the child.

A girl, he thinks at first, considering her long black hair, walking through the hallways with wonder in the prettiest set of green eyes he’s ever seen. The light green chiffon dress she wears is loose and billowy, like a nightgown but not entirely—it's far too detailed and intricate in a way that makes Draco think of an animated doll. 

Then she sees him.

A blink.

Then another.

“I’m Harry.”

Draco startles, stepping back. The name so distinctly a boy’s and the voice not quite high enough to be feminine. 

“You’re a boy?”

Harry seems to huff, puffing his cheeks with arms crossed. “Well  _ Harry _ isn’t a girl’s name is it?”

“... I’m Draco.”

Green eyes seem to light up. “Oh! You’re Lord Malfoy’s son!” 

Draco preens at the recognition, standing straighter with a smirk. “Yes, I am. And you? What’s your last name?”

“Potter.”

The name makes Draco reel back, as if slapped. Harry Potter?  _ The _ Harry Potter? The missing boy the papers never stopped fretting about? Draco frowns, disbelieving. Surely his parents would’ve said something to him if they had been keeping The Boy Who Lived in their home.

“I don’t believe you.”

Harry shrugs, unbothered. “Whatever you say.”

An awkward silence follows. Draco coughs. “The Dark Lord is keeping something special hidden here. I’m going to look for it. Want to join me?”

Harry’s smile is wide and genuine, running to lace their hands together which has Draco turning redder by the second. “Oh, an adventure! I’d love to!”

Eventually, Draco learns that  _ Harry _ is that very special something and later promptly, rather inelegantly, spits his tea out.

(The Dark Lord isn’t amused but grants Draco special visiting rights. Harry was bored and desperately needed a playmate. And Draco’s frankly too scared to say anything against the terrifying man.)

* * *

"He ... he doesn't hurt you, does he?" Draco asks.

Harry only frowns, looking shocked at the implication as he tilts his head. "Of course not, why would you ask that?"

Draco frowns, taking a slow sip from the teacup, a light breeze brushing against his cheek. A stray leaf falls onto their little table, a flower lands atop his portion of cake and Draco watches the flower shimmer out of existence. The magic in the air doesn’t bother him anymore, he’s grown accustomed to the whimsical nature of the room attuned to the boy sitting in front of him.

“Nothing,” he replies slow, remembering the screams he’s heard echoing down the hall from where the meetings were always held. “Just wanted to ask.”

* * *

Sometimes Tom slips in unannounced.

He does it mainly out of curiosity, wondering to himself what keeps the boy occupied when days could pass without Tom ever seeing him. Most of the time he enters into the blinding white, a big field of flowers or an intricately designed garden, always wide spaces with nature in heavy flourish.

So today is a curious change. The room is darkened, signifying Harry’s bedtime routine when Tom knows it’s not time for him to sleep yet.

It’s an endless space of dark, only lit by hanging stars Harry had to explain were Muggle inventions put into children’s rooms—his cousin had glowing fighter planes and Harry had always wanted pretty stars. They light the path to the bed in a golden glow, blooming white lilies along the trail filling the room with a sweet scent. The hanging canopy doesn’t seem to have an end, white fabric starts from an unseen roof and cascades down to cover the perfectly round bed. 

He notices the shadow shifting behind the curtains.

“Tom—”

He pauses in his approach at the mention of his name. Was Harry aware he’d arrived?

“ _ Tom— _ ”

A breathy moan follows and he finds himself pausing, fingers ghosting the edges of the canopy. Would he dare? He doesn’t see any other figure accompanying Harry.

“Tom,  _ please _ —”

Curiosity gets the better of him. He parts the curtains slow, silent, but eyes carefully on the unveiled body of Harry—Harry, his typical nightgown hiked up, and Tom barely manages to hold back the hitch in his breath at the sight. 

Harry, his beautiful innocent Harry, pretty eyes squeezed shut, muffling cries with his hands but what catches his attention is the item between sinfully parted legs—a charmed dildo, fucking its way in and out of Harry’s pliant body; shuddering gasps and little twitches; toes curled to show his desperate need. He finds himself mesmerized, watching how easily the sizable thing practically glides in and out, lubrication making a wet squelch each time the object was pushed back in and listens to the whimpers of the boy as it pulled itself out.

“Tom—”

He leaves just as quietly as he arrived.

* * *

Tom calls Harry plenty of things.

‘Harry’ is only used when he’s being scolded, but everything else is out of affection—so imagine his curiosity when Tom calls him something different for once.

“My little Ganymede.”

He lets himself slip quietly off to the library to check, quietly muttering the searching spell he’d learned and watches in bated breath as none of the books seem to respond—one, however, finally does flutter over, it’s pages gliding before gently lowering itself onto Harry’s open palms.

_ Iliad, by Homer. _

He learns the story of Ganymede, a beautiful Trojan boy abducted by the God Zeus for his beauty; flushes when the poem implies the boy was taken to be more than a simple cupbearer to the Gods, that almighty Zeus partook in the sins of the flesh. He learns the story, then when he visits Tom he does his best to innocently ask the question.

“Does that make you Zeus?”

Harry doesn’t miss the way Tom’s breath hitches, his fingers clenching tighter onto the chalice of wine. 

* * *

Tom learns what _fear_ is when the Manor comes under attack.

* * *

When Harry turns fifteen, the Order kidnaps him.

He’d known something was wrong when he felt the tremble in the walls, the churning of family magic as if the Manor was falling sick. He'd sat on his bed, alert, following Tom's exact words and had stayed put—but when Draco runs in, flustered and red-faced, begging Harry to follow him—Harry takes his hand without question and flees. 

He leaves the sanctuary of his warded room, follows Draco to the upper floors where Draco hides him in a crevice the wall had broken up—a crawl space just for Harry as if the Manor, having sensed trouble, was now desperate to protect its treasure. 

Draco leaves and doesn't come back, and when Harry hears new voices,  _ unfamiliar _ , a panic he’s never felt before seizes him. 

He makes the fatal mistake of noise.

They force a Portkey on him, the burn of it pressed into Harry's skin as he resists the turn of space, shrieking all the while.

He lands in a foreign room among unknown faces, voices he doesn't recognize speaking; becoming a cacophony against his mounting dread. 

"Harry, my boy, you are safe here—"

An old man with a long white beard says to him. In another life perhaps Harry would've found comfort in the twinkle of sharp blue eyes, but in this life, Harry  _ screams _ .

He screams bloody murder, wails when they move to touch him, his magic lashing as violently as a serpent and he doesn't stop screeching until he notices the old man has stopped smiling—all before a calm of nothingness washes over him, blacking him out.

His next few days as a captive aren't any better. They'd learned when Harry tried to Apparate out—a tracker was then set by the old man, which Harry violently rips off each time. He's kept in a warded room, Anti-Apparition charms set in place. The few faces he's seen are the adults, there only to talk at or feed him. The kids peer in, curious but all having been warned from getting too close. 

Harry doesn't talk to them, doesn't respond when some of the adults start to talk about Harry's parents (he doesn't care for them), hardly reacts to the knowledge of having a godfather (what good was he?) and begins yelling when any of them talk bad about Tom.

He particularly doesn’t like the old man, tries one time to claw his eyes out but is stopped with a flick of the man’s wrist. He curses the suppression charm on his body, hating every second he went without the sing of magic along his veins.

Harry knows Tom kept him in a room for a reason—but Tom had made sure Harry was never bored or felt remotely miserable. Harry's special room changed according to his desires. He had elves that fed him anything he asked and even got company on the occasion he got really bored. The Order kept him in an unchanging room, a cycle of faces and droning voices. The food he refuses to eat for the first few days, but he gets threatened by one of them (a scary man, eyepatch, hobbling on a faux leg) to eat or they'd force potions down his throat.

It's only a couple of days before Harry notices a change, he doesn't mistake the saturation of magic in the air as anything other than Tom—and suddenly he finds his voice again, banging palms against the door just to get someone,  _ anyone, _ to notice the no doubt hidden room.

He waits until the hinges of the door keeping him shut away are blown open, then he runs—finding himself buried in the arms of the only person he's ever found safety in. Tom holds him tightly, hoisting Harry up easily—one hand under him and another softly patting his head. Tom’s voice is a comforting murmur, whispered promises against the backdrop of spells being shot back and forth.

Tom keeps Harry’s head down, tells him to keep his eyes closed as they pass through the remains of the house. But Harry isn't stupid. He knows the smell of dark magic, and peeks an eye open to count the dead bodies littered around the area.

(The bearded old man isn't among the dead, and he doesn't see any children, but he picks out some faces of the adults who'd tried to talk to him.)

* * *

Tom becomes more protective after that. No one says anything against it, not daring to question their Lord. Harry learns Draco had been praised for moving Harry, even if Harry did end up getting kidnapped in the end. The Order had known about the special room and had managed to find it in the time Harry was moved. 

(Draco is entirely relieved, looking about close to tears when he sees Harry, and Harry has to gently comfort the blonde that,  _ no, he wasn’t hurt _ and  _ no, they didn’t torture him _ . Has to watch in amusement as Draco curses every member of the Order, swearing vengeance on any of them if they showed their faces in Hogwarts. Harry is touched, so he gently embraces the shaken teen in a rare hug and delights in the way Draco’s face burns a brilliant shade of red.)

They torched the room under  Fiendfyre , the uncontrollable flame having consumed at least an eighth of the beautiful Manor. What remained of his room was a charred mess, the intricate charm work Harry knows Tom had spent countless nights on—gone. Harry does cry, more than sad as what remained of his fond childhood was nothing but blackened soot; his hiccuping breaths are steadied as Tom promises to make him another, but they both know it would never be the same.

Harry learns to despise the Order. 

Not having his special room meant Harry was given a normal room, one right next to Tom. But it isn’t enough. Instead, Harry spends nights creeping out just to crawl under the covers and tuck himself neatly into the warm space under Tom’s stronger arms. Relishing in the comforting scent of Sandalwood that made up Tom, he buries his face into the older man’s chest and falls asleep to deft fingers carding through his hair.

* * *

“I don’t know how to keep you safe, Harry.”

Tom would say to him a couple of nights later, a frown on his face. The moonlight catches onto his handsome somber features, illuminated in the shadows of their room. Outside the wind whispers, pushing against the fine curtains.

“No, you  _ know _ how to keep me safe. You just don’t want to do it.”

The older man’s smile is soft and fond, tugging Harry closer. Between the warmth of their bodies, Harry finds himself flushing red but he doesn’t stop himself from snaking smaller arms around his torso. “You’re right. I do know. But I don’t want to do it at the cost of your happiness.” Tom replies, murmuring the words.

“Then,” Harry begins, soft. “—mark me.”

The silence between them stretches. Tom is contemplative. “I only mark my followers. You are not that.”

“I know.”

“It will hurt.”

“I know.”

“You would still go through with it?” Tom asks, wonder in his voice, whispering the question.

“For you?” Harry’s words feel more like a vow, a promise. Glittering emerald eyes set against rubies. “Yes.”

That night Tom presses his wand to Harry’s throat, shushes his cries as Harry whimpers from the pain. Hums soft praise into Harry’s ear, adoration in his voice a soothing balm to the clawing excruciating agony lacerating his neck.

The inky mark that blooms under the wand is unlike any of the designs given to his followers—Harry receives a snake, winding around the pale expanse of his throat, consuming its own tail. The ouroboros, a symbol of completeness, a self-sustaining  _ everlasting _ creature. It creates a bond, and under Tom’s fingers absently thumbing over Harry’s skin, it practically  _ sings _ in pleasure.

Harry’s dark lashes are stained with fresh wet tears, his little gasps each time Tom so much as touches the mark riling something deep in him.

“Tom?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Harry flushes gorgeously under the unexpected praise, smiling sweetly before he tilts himself up, pressing a kiss—soft, chaste, _ willing _ —against Tom. The next words are whispered so softly, embarrassed, but he doesn’t mistake the words spoken on red-bitten cherry lips.

“I love you.”

(The smell of Harry doesn’t leave him for days after that, a delightful vanilla mixed with rich caramel in a heady spell that leaves Tom rather dazed.)

* * *

Harry becomes a permanent fixture seen around the Manor, meeting more faces because of how incredibly boring it becomes to stay in the bedroom. Sometimes he sits in on Death Eater meetings, occasionally listening to the words, but always meekly by Tom’s feet and enjoying the feeling of being petted. 

The Death Eaters warm to him quickly. Sure, he’s been seen around the Manor through the years—but most of it Harry had spent being protected in his room, with stern warnings from Tom to his followers to never so much as look at Harry. But now he’s older, his magic definitely stronger, and the Harry Potter scorned as the prophecy child is no more.

Instead, he’s a delightfully meek creature, always seen obediently following Tom and head canted down in soft subservience. 

Bellatrix softens up to him the fastest; seeing Harry as the pretty niece she never got, always quick to pull him aside to shove him into different dresses and braid his hair. Tom finds it amusing. Harry wants to complain but the unhinged woman looks truly at ease in these times; tittering and laughing, so bright and different from the deranged murderess that he lets her have these moments. 

Another member Harry gets close to is Bartemius Jr, the man, and Harry having both quickly bonded over being “adopted” by Tom. They share a loyalty to Tom that’s different from the greed and blind obedience most of the members have, and share scathing looks during meetings when a particularly stupid question is asked. Barty also becomes Harry’s main guard when he’s allowed outside the safety of the Manor, under heavy glamour, warded and charmed. The fear of being kidnapped is still there, but Harry understands they dealt a heavy blow to the Order when he was rescued.

(Harry is allowed little privileges when out, most of Hogsmeade just knows Harry as  _ Harriet _ —a demure Noble’s half-blood daughter, with hair as dark as night and lovely grey eyes.)

His relationship with the Malfoys is a little more strained; Draco shows the same open adoration that sometimes Tom doesn’t approve of, Lord Malfoy treats Harry with the same curt respect as he does with Tom, and Lady Malfoy does her best to avoid Harry entirely. Disappearing when he’s around and only ever staying put when the situation calls for it. Draco tells him it’s because she doesn’t like the idea of him and Harry spending so much time together. Draco finds it ridiculous, and Harry shares the sentiment.

* * *

There’s something especially disconcerting about walking into a room and coming face to face with your own doppelgänger.

“Snape, how … glad you could join us.”

He feels the tick in his brow, a hex on the tip of his tongue listening to the familiar drawl spew from a mouth not his own—but stops himself because of the laughter from the younger boy in the room. 

“Uncle Sev! Barty was teaching me about the Polyjuice Potion!”

Harry’s eyes soften something in him. He relaxes to take a glance at the messy potions room—taking stock of the various things strewn about and the still full cauldron bubbling away. Barty, wearing Snape’s face, twists his features into a smile, something he winces at and has to look away from. He can’t personally ever imagine his own face looking like that. 

“If you’re going to ask—blame Harry, he stole your hair.”

Harry twists his head sharply, a look of utter betrayal flashing on his features before turning puppy eyes back on Severus who has to suck in a breath because he really can’t face the force of affection those eyes hold.

  
“I’m sorry Uncle Sev, I promise I’ll ask next time.”

“There will be no next time,” he grumbles in a terse sniff. “If you must experiment with Polyjuice, use Bellatrix.”

* * *

Hogwarts, from what he understands, decides to close down at the onset of war.

Not that Harry particularly cares for that matter. Rather, he gets more time with Draco and surprisingly—even gets to meet some of Draco's Slytherin friends. 

"So, who are you?" says one of the girls—Parkinson he thinks, Draco's jealous beaux who'd spent the entire time scowling at Harry. 

"Just Harry is fine."

"What? Ashamed to tell us your family name? That you're a Mud—" 

The wench doesn't get much further than that, her voice cutting off and Harry maintains disinterest watching her scratch her neck—choking, all without a sound. Draco looks only vaguely bothered, frowning but making no move to help the girl.

"I hope you learn to watch that mouth of yours. It would get you in terrible trouble."

His smile is icy as he says it, watching Pansy nod frantically as he doesn’t even need to gesture to end the spell.  _ Ruthless _ , he remembers Bellatrix crooning in his ear.  _ Always be ruthless, it would never benefit to show weakness. _

("Is that how Tom controls everyone?" He had asked, sweet and innocently. Giggling when she pressed another fond kiss on his cheek. 

"Yes my little darling, our Lord shows no mercy—so never cower to those beneath you.")

He will meet the Parkinson girl three years later, both older, but one will be the Dark Lord's ambassador and the other a quivering daughter to a noble house.

* * *

“Funny isn’t it, Albus? How far you’ve fallen.”

He holds the Dark Lord’s gaze steadily, refusing to look away, yet he feels the tremble in his fingers so acutely—hears the rattle of the magic-suppressing chains clamped across his wrists. The Death Eaters chortle, all amused at the show of fear, but Albus struggles to articulate his horror.

His eyes never stray from Tom, Tom who doesn’t look like he’s aged since becoming a man; different from the youth Albus had seen graduating Hogwarts. He’s a man now, form more filled out and a sheen of power that pulses like a heady fog over the room, drenching its occupants. A flaunt of magical capability comparable to a peacock. But then, no—what draws Albus’s attention is the meek form beside the man’s throne, the face of the frowning boy with so much  _ hatred _ in his eyes it makes Albus’s heart clench.

“Ah, so you’ve noticed. I suppose he’s hard to ignore, beautiful isn’t he?” 

Tom nudges Harry from beside the throne into the light, the boy going easily with the touch but still keeping his heated glare on Albus. Now, the former Headmaster struggles to keep his stare, eyes flickering between Harry and Tom who looks entirely smug, taking occasional sips from a chalice.

“My Harry has been furious with you, you see. And his temper is … a wonder to beheld”

A ring of sparse chuckles follows among the Death Eaters, the unmasked ones at ease with knowing smiles on their faces. Harry keeps his vicious scowl, but comes to heel the moment Tom brushes against him.

“But we’ve strayed from the point—you are here to answer for your crimes against the New World. How do you plead, Albus Dumbledore?”

Albus keeps his emotions in check, a tight rein over what control he has left—but watching Harry (small Harry, nothing but a warm bundle in his arms, wet cries with Lily’s starburst green eyes and James’ mess of black hair) pour wine from the pitcher he clutches, the red of the liquid pouring into the gold chalice in Tom’s hand, attention away from Albus and onto the Dark Lord—

Albus watches the sheer adoration sparkling in his eyes, and finally, he feels his control slip.

* * *

When Harry turns sixteen, Dumbledore dies, and the Dark Lord Voldemort wins the war.

* * *

“Pretty pet,” Bellatrix purrs, a soft crooning voice as she shuffles closer to Harry. She cups his face and places a big smooch on his cheek, laughing when he frowns and tries to move away, rubbing furiously to get red lipstick off his pale skin. “—my little bird, you should be in there celebrating!” She titters disapprovingly, moving to wrap her shawl around Harry. The bitter cold wind is already biting on her skin, she can’t imagine how Harry must feel; he’d escaped from the festivities earlier, still clad in nothing but delicate sheer fabric. 

She tugs him into a hug, and Harry sinks in willingly, curling arms around her waist and nestling his head into her chest. Her hands run across messy curls and she feels him sigh against her. It was no secret the boy loved affection but was selective with who he granted physical touches to—limited to a handful of people and hisses at anyone else.

“I was Aunty Bella, but I can’t deal with them being so ...  _ drunk _ .” Her bird bemoans, but it brings a fond smile to her face. How she’d ever gotten so besotted with the boy is beyond her. 

“That’s to be expected dear, but it’s a celebration and you need to show yourself. You are, after all, now the face of our Lord’s New World now.”

The decision had been made months before, suggested by Lucius— _ it would be for good publicity _ —having Harry shown as alive, cared for and well, hidden by the Dark Lord out of safety. Harry had supported the decision too, wanting his treatment with the Dursleys to come to light, for Dumbledore to be remembered as a man with more mistakes than merits. Her little pet held grudges fiercely, and a part of her wonders if that was the distant Black in his blood showing.

(So they trained him. Taught him how to speak, how to smile. How to sway a room, seduce. Harry’s a fast learner, it actually frightens her how quickly he’d pick on the most subtle cues. Their dove had the whitest feathers, but the cunning of a crow could never be mistaken.)

Harry pouts at her; it would be childish and annoying on most children, but her heart only fills with love at his petulant attitude. Bellatrix almost wishes her nephew Draco was half as cute, but Narcissa was a strict and firm mother with her son. Harry had been raised by their Lord, given everything and to an extent spoiled rotten. Now he had almost all their Lord’s followers under his thumb, practically bending over backward to please the teen as much as their terrifying master.

“Will you accompany me back then?” He bats pretty eyes up at her, head bowed but looking entirely like the cheeky little tart she knows he is. Her arms wrap around his, guiding her little angel to where the cheers and singing of the celebration continued. 

“Of course, what kind of Aunt would I be otherwise?.”

* * *

In the following months, with most things having calmed down, and Hogwarts opening back up, Harry makes the abrupt decision to learn the Animagus transformation.

Abrupt isn’t exactly the right word however, he’d just watched in fascination as Tom shrunk to become a snake—and he’d been overcome with the intense urge to do exactly the same. He wants that same freedom an animal form would give him, and is more than a little curious what creature he’d become.

So he’s patient, learns the ritual, keeps a wretched Mandrake leaf under his tongue for a month, whispers the incantation as faithfully as an apostle—and finally drinks the potion during a particularly impressive lightning storm.

“Our little bird has sprouted wings!” 

He hears the delighted laughter of Bellatrix, zipping around familiar heads and finally landing on the open palm of Tom who has a pleased smile on his face. He trills at the feeling of a finger stroking across his breast, sings sweetly before hopping off and flying to land in the tuft of Barty’s hair just to annoy the older man.

A magpie.

Tom conjures a mirror for him to preen. His crown to his tail are covered in deep ebony feathers, while his belly, in contrast, is a soft white. Wide blinking eyes, dulled to a deeper forest green glance curiously at the reflection before bounding off for flight again.

When he finally gets sick of his animagus form (that is, after spending two full days in it) he leaps back into Tom’s open arms. The older man welcomes him with affection and praises, aerial animagi were considered the best—it gave a freedom that land-based and water-based animals never could quite achieve.

“Hello, Mister Magpie. How is Misses Magpie and all the little Magpies?” Tom rumbles the greeting into Harry’s hair, affectionately stroking his head. Harry responds by cheekily transforming in his arms and flying away.

* * *

“I finally know what to give the little bird.”

Barty says to him one day, a mysterious smile on his face. The older man had been complaining about not knowing what to gift Harry for his birthday despite his insistence he didn’t need anything. He asks him to strip and lie down, and while Harry is apprehensive at first (raising his brows, entirely unimpressed at the man)—he trusts the older wizard as much as Tom does.

The burn he feels scalding across his back is familiar, though it has him yelping before it cools off. He immediately conjures a mirror, now marveling at the tattooed wings falling across his back. 

The magic in them is much simpler than the one given to him by Tom, charmed to move but didn’t offer any form of connection as Harry’s Ouroboros and the Dark Mark tended to do. His fingers trace over the delicate lines lovingly, delighting in the way the feathers seem to shift under the movement. Harry had kept it under wraps he loved his animagus form a little too much, flying gifted him a freedom he never knew possible—so this gift is intimate, personal enough it has Harry on the verge of tears because at least now he doesn’t have to miss the feeling of wings carrying him.

“A magpie animagus, so I thought—why not?” Barty had then said with a big grin, pleased with his own work; he was an artist second to being a loyal Death Eater. 

Tom and Bellatrix weren’t as happy however, hexing the poor man to hell.

* * *

At seventeen Harry attends Hogwarts as a spectator, sitting next to Tom, watching the beginning of the Triwizard Tournament with nothing but unabashed childish glee. His position next to the Dark Lord goes unquestioned; the world knows of the child sitting pretty, the beautiful representative of the regime that could charm with sweet words and smiles. Orpheus in the flesh, with a lyrical voice that could sway the skies and bend mountains.

Eyes follow him everywhere he goes now, whispered questions asking for his name, hears the shock when Harry Potter is murmured. Sometimes there’s pity, sometimes there’s envy, sometimes there’s outrage, but most of it is hate.

Harry recognizes hate.

The perch he has next to Tom is the best seat overlooking the entire arena—nothing but the best for their Lord—Harry hangs off the edge of the plush cushion and Tom more than once has to chastise him to sit properly. Barty from beside him cackles, and Harry shoots a scathing glare at the man before following Tom’s instructions. His hair has gotten even longer from the years of not being cut; it’s a mess on normal occasions, but today Bellatrix has styled it up, threading thick black locks through with little strings of emeralds. The jewels catch the sunlight in the most delightful ways, and he’s gotten compliments of how nicely they match his eyes. 

His clothes are much the same, low cut, exposing shoulders and the proud mark he wears of Lord Voldemort on his throat. The snake seems to move sometimes, sliding to consume its tail, scales glimmering whenever the sun shines on it. Its eyes are deep forest green, and Harry is almost certain the mark is sentient for how unnerved some people are when looking at it. Or maybe they were just disturbed by the mark in general.

Harry cheers along with the spectators when Draco emerges from the tent, the Hogwarts Champion, looking entirely confident but Harry knows how nervous he’d been when his name was spat out of the Goblet. The dragon roars from the enclosed space, tail flicking in ire with smoke around its snout. The mother’s form is taut as she curls protectively around her clutch of eggs, and she shows no mercy to Draco who she sees as a threat to her young.

Draco does eventually get the egg, however, and that’s all that matters—even if the poor boy comes out with burns and a horribly deep gash on his chest from where a talon had nearly come close to clawing him open.

* * *

“Draco!”

He feels himself stiffen at the familiar voice, his sentence from where he’d been trying to speak to Victor and Fleur is cut off when he feels the press of a body against his—the arms wrapping snugly around his neck has him squawking at how he gets yanked backward. Draco had shot up in puberty, gaining a height a good head taller than Harry; Harry who remained small, lithe and petite, but had a vicious grip that rivaled his Aunt Bellatrix.

The two other competitors are understandably a little weary, there isn’t anyone that doesn’t know of Harry Potter—the one who’d essentially become the Dark Lord’s icon in his regime, a beacon for the promised better future. 

(Rebels whisper, angry, calling Harry Potter nothing but a pet. A slave. Dark Lord’s  _ whore _ .)

“Congratulations! You did so well, are you fully healed now?” Harry asks, sweet and gentle. Releasing his hold to face Draco properly, peering up at him—Draco tries to look away, mortified at the fact his cheeks were heating. He has a girlfriend for Merlin’s sake.

“Y-yes. Fully healed, it’ll only leave a scar. But I’m told to be proud.” His stuttering makes him wince, it’s undignified for a Lord’s son, but he recovers fast enough.

“That’s good, you don’t know how glad I am you survived—” Here Harry touches his hands, soft padded fingers against his slighter firmer hands. It’s an innocent touch, but incredibly intimate as well. He swallows dryly. “—try and take care of yourself. I won’t be able to bear it if you got hurt so badly again.” Draco nods, not trusting himself to speak, his eyes still on the delicate smaller hand holding onto his.

Harry’s attention flickers to the two beside him, he watches his friend’s eyes switch from soft to calculating, then sweet in the span of a few seconds.

“Victor Krum and Fleur Delacour! Where are my manners? Welcome to Britain, I hope your stay has been pleasant?”

The two give their assured responses, and Draco thinks Harry makes a good representative watching the raven start a polite conversation between them, from how they found Hogwarts to the champions’ home life. Harry coos when Fleur talks about her sister. 

“She must be so lucky, having a doting older sister like you.” 

Fleur, significantly relaxed, replies with a grin. “She’s a little monster, always thinking she’ll get away with everything.” 

“I’m an only child you see—the most spoiling I get is from—“

“Harry.” Three of the four freeze up at the voice. “Come.”

Harry seems to give a huff, turning to the champions and flashing another bright smile. “It was wonderful talking to you, please enjoy the party.” And with that Draco watches him walk off, smoothly into place right next to their Dark Lord, the older man’s possessive hand on the small of Harry’s back, guiding him through the crowd. 

“He’s…” Victor begins, cautious with his words. “Very charming isn’t he?”

Fleur nods in assent, “I expected to be at least wary and yet there I was blabbering about my sister.” The Frenchwoman sighs, seemingly disappointed with herself before sharp eyes are on Draco. “Are you certain he’s not part Veela?”

“Merlin,  _ no _ .”

God forbid. 

* * *

“Really? That’s surprising, I thought it would be his father or mother. Maybe his girlfriend—Mallory was it?”

Severus almost wants to roll his eyes, seriously wondering how oblivious the child could be. He holds his tongue however, he has his Lord’s temper to consider—a temper he sees as being tested right now.

“Absolutely not, you will not—“

“I’ll be safe! You realize I was the one to negotiate the challenge with the merpeople right? They love me, I’ll be fine Tom.”

Severus winces at the casual use of the Lord's name, but as always the man doesn’t react. His brows are pinched, frown of displeasure clearly etched on his features and Harry gives an exasperated puff of annoyance. Severus wisely stays quiet, his job was just to relay what the next challenge entailed. 

“I will not allow the Malfoy spawn to continue his petty crush in this manner—“

“Tom, he just sees me as someone precious, it doesn’t say anywhere he wants to court me. Come on, this is the most fun I’ll be having for weeks.”

“... Fine. Do what you will, terribly wilful creature.” He watches their Lord tsk under his breath, Harry looking entirely victorious. 

* * *

Draco had known something was wrong the moment he couldn’t catch sight of Harry just before the match. Fleur and Victor both faced the same, one not having seen her sister anywhere and the other missing his boyfriend. Atypical, because loved ones were always allowed to give private well wishes before the matches.

And then the fucking announcer has to go and say they’re underwater. 

Livid doesn’t fully capture the emotion he feels, but it’s quickly followed up by fear as he snaps his head to the Dark Lord. Notices the man’s clear displeasure, a glare directed at the water as if it’d personally offended him. 

The whistle blows and they don’t waste time diving underwater. 

He swallows the gillyweed easily enough, waits until he feels the sting of air and plunges beneath the cold water. It’s murky, only briefly illuminated by the streaming sunlight but going deeper he has to rely on his wand to see past the dancing seaweed and fleeing fish. He thinks he hears the fire of movement somewhere, but his area remains undisturbed—hiding among the taller plants and counting the minutes he has of the gillyweed before it runs out. 

Draco swims a good length before he sees them.

It’s eerie, scarily so, three prone bodies of living people suspended in the water held only by a light chain around their ankles. Half of him wonders which idiot ever thought these challenges were worth it, he’d like to personally hex the asshole who thought death matches between children and deadly creatures was a good way to build up international relations. 

There’s a guard to every body, and Draco is almost nervous but his time underwater is running out. He tries to be sneaky, but the water isn’t his domain and he’s sniffed out fast by Harry’s guard—the creature snarling before lunging. He’s somewhat glad the other two don’t so much as move; one mer to a champion it seemed. 

His battle is messy like the first, he winces at the new set of wounds from where the spear would have skewered him; but he manages to get the spear out of the creature’s hand, and the mer lifts both hands up—a universal sign of surrender.

“He is yours to take, you have succeeded in the trial.” 

The lyrical voice catches him off guard, for a while he’s wary but the being doesn’t move and Draco nods, murmuring his thanks. He swims to Harry and works on getting the chain off, hooking smaller arms under his and pulling the boy flush to swim to the surface; managing just by seconds as he feels the gillyweed effect fading off and normal lungs return. 

As he breaks the surface, Harry revives with a gasp, immediately grasping onto Draco and throwing his head back into raucous laughter that stuns most of the crowd.

“Draco! That was amazing!”

He’s going to get a heart attack from this boy, he swears it.

* * *

Minerva likes to think herself a level-headed woman, and in many ways she is. She’s a fair teacher and adores her students equally, every child that passes through Hogwarts’ becomes hers in a way; and she becomes a mother to an entire den of lions, ravens, badgers, and snakes. 

So it’s understandable she doesn’t see  _ that _ child as hers.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall.” A sweet voice she doesn’t recognize greets her, and she struggles not to curl her lips at the sight of him. A part of her aches, hurts in ways unlike any other because she can see bits of James and Lily in this boy—but he’s made up of entirely his own person, and that is a person she can’t ever find herself liking. 

“Harry Potter, or shall I call you Mister Potter?”

“Harry, please Professor, Mister Potter is much too formal.” He smiles, abashed and gentle, she thinks he’d make a good Hufflepuff with a sweet demeanor like that. 

“What can I help you with then, Harry?”

“I was just passing by honestly, I’m heading to the field to greet Draco.”

She nods her head. She understands the two were close—Draco apparently being the only other child Harry had ever seen growing up. (It’s an appalling thought, shocking for many; but Harry turned out to be a meek and kind child and suddenly it didn’t matter.)

“Mister Malfoy will need all the support he can get, the final challenge is much more difficult than the previous two.” She purses her lips, clearly having not agreed with the challenges set, but the Professors had only been informed last minute—just to ensure none of them spoke to their students. 

“I see you don’t approve.” She blinks at the statement, glancing at the shorter boy who only has a smile on his face. “Don’t worry, I didn’t agree either. I threw a right fit at him when I found out, but he insisted that no one would die.”

“You trust him?” Her words of derision slip out from her lips faster than she can take them back, and suddenly she’s afraid of what that would mean. “I apologize—“

“Yes. I trust him. With my life.” Minerva is shocked by the blunt honesty in his eyes, having to take a step back in realization of what it meant. So far the Dark Lord hadn’t yet broken his promises, as long as you weren’t a rebel you had a chance to thrive under his regime no matter how sordid it seemed. She nods her head, understanding. 

“Well, it was really nice talking to you Professor. I’m sorry I couldn’t be your student, I think I would’ve been a lion, like my parents, but Tom thinks I would’ve made a good snake too. Hardly matters now though does it?” 

His light airy laughter, like little summer bells, so unburdened by life and its troubles is the only sound she hears for the remainder of her walk. 

* * *

The deafening roar of the Hogwarts students blacks out all other noise, they cheer and applaud, streamers going off and even the Slytherin house is in raucous screams. Below in the field, Draco holds the champions’ cup, gold and gleaming in his hands. The blonde has the biggest grin on his tar-marked face, looking entirely boyish and not at all like a prim and proper Lord’s son—but it hardly mattered.

* * *

Yule is an even bigger affair, in a swirl of bright colors and laughter. The champions take the first dance, Draco leading his girlfriend in a confident glide across the floor following the charmed orchestra. Harry giggles along the twirl Barty leads him on, the spinning of the sheer light green dress catching attention as they move. 

“Many eyes are on you tonight, princess.” Barty murmurs, speculatively glancing towards the many young faces peering at them. A mixture of caution and curiosity.

“Shh, don’t tell Tom.” Harry whispers back conspiratorially, lighthearted and unbothered by the stares. Bellatrix had been more than pushy, insisting on a dress that made Harry more feminine than he already was, soft billowy fabric making him more fae that human, allowing the careless tousle of black hair to cascade down his back—only neatly kept out of his face by the glittering circlet around his head.

They end the dance in an elegant bow and curtsey, and almost immediately is Harry swept in for another by strong arms and a murmured question. He delights in the attention, even if it does earn a couple of scowling faces from the other women in the room

Part of him wonders what kind of face Tom would be making, but he isn’t going to give the older man the satisfaction just yet. 

“So many flowers here, and yet you remain the loveliest.” 

“Flattery will get you everywhere with me.” 

Harry smiles demurely, batting eyes up at the heir—his father was a Duke in the Austrian royal family, avid supporters of the Dark Lord and among the first to have aligned themselves to Britain’s New World. He feels the hand around his waist dip lower, entirely subtle but Harry allows a coy smile on his face.

“Why don’t we take this somewhere more … private.”

(He can  _ feel _ burning red eyes trailing after him as he exits the ballroom.)

* * *

“Mein Gott,” The words are rasped against his ear, dragging a moan from Harry as he whimpers at the calloused hands trailing—hiking up his dress. “Du bist wunderschön.”

A heavy palm slips under his panties, he feels the Duke’s breathing hitch at the revelation, but a strangled whimper follows his own voice at the feeling of being roughly jerked. “So, Prinzessin? Du magst es hart, oder?” The delightful growl against his ear has Harry’s knees weak, buckling but firmly held up by the man’s other hand. He whines his assent, grinding back onto the man’s obvious arousal more insistently and cries when the hand around his cock tightens. The switch to English flows as smooth as water, still heady with desire. “I had no idea the Dark Lord kept such a whore, do you beg like this around him too? Like a bitch in heat.”

Harry giggles half deliriously, still fueled with desire and only shivering when he feels the press of insistent fingers against his hole—one sliding in easily, the slight stretch enough it has Harry shivering, panting against the light thrusts and begging for another. He clenches at the anticipation—not at all hearing the footsteps of their intruder—and only hears the crash of someone being thrown against the wall, the warmth along his back gone and now strong arms tugging on his hand before he feels the familiar warp of apparition.

“Such insolence.” Tom hisses his displeasure, making his ire known by practically throwing Harry onto the bed before dragging him to the edge by an ankle. Still, Harry delights in the show of strength, shivers when Tom slots their mouths together, growling his distaste the entire time. “You irritable creature, sneaking off with another man like a common whore.”

“You wouldn’t  _ touch _ me.” Harry manages to snarl back, all the same, a bubbling of mild anger rearing its head.

Tom only moves to grip his hair, fisting it harshly and tilting Harry’s head back to bear his neck. “And why do you think that is? I had the patience to wait until you were of age, but I see that was pointless.” 

He meshes their lips in another messy kiss, Harry turning pliant for him, he pushes the younger boy on his belly—nipping along his ass for Harry to present himself, Harry quickly folds his knees under him, spreading and kept kneeling, shuddering when Tom not too gently rips the seams along the sheer dress and makes quick work of his robes. 

Tom doesn’t give Harry the pleasure of preparation, casts a spell for lubrication, pressing the reddened, leaking head against his virginal hole and pushes in—Harry is reduced to incoherent babbling, a weak hand moving between his legs to jerk himself off; but gets swatted away by Tom’s own hand.

“You come on my cock or not at all.” He pulls Harry’s arms back, folding them to yank the boy back further onto his hard member—Harry wailing the entire time, shuddering at the burning stretch and squirming to get away. His struggle, helped along by the lubrication, slides Tom’s dick in and out, light jerky movements that have Harry crying out. 

“Maybe this way you’ll think twice about going around spreading your legs for strangers.” And then Tom pulls out, all the way, until only the bulbous head kisses his rim and Harry sighs in agitated relief at the lack of pressure.

All before Tom slams back in, making Harry scream.

Tom doesn’t make love, he fucks,  _ takes _ , hardly gentle but Harry doesn’t complain—takes each rough shove of hips and meets Tom eagerly with his own push backward. This earn’s a deep chuckle from the older man, his tight fingers fisting Harry’s hair and arms a contradiction to the whispered words of tender love now filling the breaths between them.

Harry’s breathing is punctured gasps, writhing against the solid body filling him, fucking him within an inch of his life—Harry feels used like this, just a warm body for Tom’s own pleasure, a twitching hole eager for his cock that has Harry burning with both shame and want. His toes curl when a particularly harsh thrust has the head brush against his prostate, and the shift in position is just enough to make sure each jerk has the bundle of nerves set alight; crying now from the tingles along his nerves.

“Tom—I—I’m—”

“ _ Come for me _ .”

And he does, crying his name, clenching around Tom and coloring the sheets with white—the tightening has the older man hissing, before Tom stills and follows. His release comes in thick spurts, a warmth that fills Harry so well it has him shaking in bliss.

Tom eventually does pull out to Harry’s protest against the loss, and Tom chuckling, admiring the sight of the red puffy rim; he lays Harry down gently, sweet as a lover and mutters a cleaning charm that vanishes the mess of their sex away. Harry’s fingers drag Tom down, curling against the man and refusing to budge—but Tom is everything including indulgent when it comes to Harry.

“Sleep sweetly, my little bird.”

* * *

If an Austrian heir goes missing, no one questions it.

* * *

Ron watches the broadcast with something of a grimace. Hermoine next to him holds his hands tightly enough he wonders if his fingers would fall off if she clung any tighter.

On the muggle television, something introduced by the Dark Lord, they watch the man give his announcement in bated breath.

_ “—in this New World we do not discriminate against those magically able. Magical born is magical born, no matter the background, and it is in our duty to—” _

The rest of the speech is drowned out as Hermoine relaxes her hands, letting go a breath she didn’t appear to have realized she was holding in. The tension leaves her shoulders in spades, and Ron worryingly gives a couple of awkward pats on the back watching his girlfriend bury her head in her hands. 

“I was so sure they would campaign against Muggleborns—” she begins, voice shaky with breath.

“No, the Dark Lord and the Ambassador are both Half-bloods if the papers are anything to go by. They aren’t intent on discrimination, maybe against Muggles—but they don’t have magic, to begin with.” Ron’s dad replies, a strangely considering look on his face before he smiles. “In fact, the word around Ministry is life for Muggleborns will get better. What with these new decrees going forward.” 

Hermoine manages an unsteady nod of her head, Ginny passing her a warm cup of tea. “It’s just so strange you know? Months ago with all these Death Eaters around and I was so sure he was representing those ridiculous Pureblood ideals; now it’s as if everything has changed and suddenly everyone is nodding and agreeing that Muggbleborns aren’t a threat—it’s a lot. One moment I’m scared if I’ll ever get to complete my Hogwarts education, and another I’m suddenly looking at a future working at the Ministry like I always wanted.”

“That’s a good thing isn’t it?” Ron watches his mother this time, a wistful smile on her face. “A future for everyone.”

* * *

But inevitably, history finds a way to repeat itself. 

* * *

They learn of the prophecy child’s birth as soon as the child turns a month old.

The seer before them trembles, his form a wreck of tremors, the last of the Trelawney line fearing his own future for the prediction that escaped his lips.

A child. Born to those on neither side of the war, who will be taken, raised by the Light to subjugate the Dark.

“You are not bothered?”

Tom would whisper the question, worried frown pinched on his features. Harry smiles in return, gently cupping the older man’s face to press a chaste kiss on his lips. “Wasn’t I the same? Yet here we are.”

Tom’s face turns considering, “Are you suggesting—”

Harry cuts him off before he can finish, smiling brightly at the Dark Lord and batting coquettish eyes at the man. “Would you have a child with me, milord?”

Lucius promptly spits out his wine.

* * *

His name is Perseus Theobald Williams.

A half-blood. Muggle father and witch mother who wanted nothing to do with the war, they’d instead kept neutral, hidden away in the muggle world. 

The father was found dead on the couch. The mother—Vasilisa Fawley—was found murdered next to her baby’s crib, the child missing, and muggle police scratched their heads wondering what had caused their deaths.

(It wasn’t Tom’s fault this time. The Light got desperate enough to repeat a dark history. Murdering for the greater good.)

They steal the infant from the Light in a war of flashes and bright color, tucked into Harry’s arm as he apparates them away from the battlefield. The angry roars of Light warriors still ringing in his ears.

Perseus’s watery blue eyes blink up at Harry, gurgling happily when he gets a fond coo.

“Don’t worry darling, we’ll take good care of you.”

* * *

“Percy!”

Laughter rings along the hallway, the squealing of an excited five-year-old as he gets snatched and thrown up into the air. Landing in firm arms and put down safely, the boy immediately rushes to his mother—tiny fingers curling into the sheer of a soft dress and burying his face into the welcoming embrace. 

“What did we say about running, darling?”

The boy looks abashed, head canting down and biting his lip. “No running until daddy finishes his meeting?”

The stern look his mother gives him softens up considerably, and Perseus knows he’s gotten away with it. “Oh I’m so weak to your tears, come here, we won’t bother uncle Barty anymore.”

“Bye, uncle!”

His mother picks him up easily, noting his weight as Perseus curls himself around the comforting figure. His own small hands bury into soft locks of black, marveling in the way they shine under the light. He’d always asked his parents why he was blonde, his mom had black hair and dad had dark brown so it didn’t make sense—they’d only laugh, promised to tell him when he got older where he got his soft blonde hair and azure blinking eyes.

The doors leading to where the long table lay spread opens, and Perseus is quick to wriggle from his mother’s hold. He sprints as soon as he’s let down, moving pass bigger bodies not noticing how they bow to his mother and part like the Red Sea to him. He pushes up to his father’s arms, insistent but delighting when he feels stronger arms winding around him. 

“Mummy said I can’t run until your meeting is finished. It’s finished now, so can we go to Diagon?”

“I did not say we could go to Diagon.” His mother adds with a huff that has him hiding in the crook of his father’s neck, but the man only chuckles.

“Yes, we can go.”

“You’re spoiling him terribly, you know that right?”

“You’re not one to talk, caving as soon as he cries.” Perseus giggles as he faces his mother, a gleam in his eyes a little too intelligent—knowing too well how to work his parents over with wide puppy eyes and watery tears.

Still, the soft affectionate kiss on his forehead is telling enough.

This child grows not knowing the horrors of war, doesn’t know what it’s like to have the blood of the dead smeared on his face. This child doesn’t grow a weapon, used by others and discarded to fate. This child grows loved, cared for, happy, safe in a world where two had decided that there would be no such thing as prophecies—only the inevitable to be made by their own hands.

So he basks in their love.

* * *

_ “All men have stars,” he answered, “but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travellers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems. For my businessman they are wealth. But all these stars are silent.  _ ** _You—you alone—will have the stars as no one else has them—_ ** _ ” _

_ “What are you trying to say?” _

_ “In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night… You—only you—will have stars that can laugh!” _

— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

* * *

**BAD ENDING**

They don’t learn of the prophecy child until the boy is seventeen, seventeen and raised under the Light—seventeen and having destroyed all of Tom’s seven Horcruxes.

Seventeen, dangerous, and brainwashed—determined to kill the Dark Lord.

It happens fast, too fast, a distraction there and suddenly Harry has to watch in muted horror as Tom’s body is falling, a killing curse muttered by someone (somewhere) and Harry doesn’t care what happens now because his love is cold, his love is dying and there’s nothing he can—

The rain pattering on the battlefield is light, gentle water like tears from the skies.

Harry’s cry is deafening, an inhuman scream that rings through the battlefield and sends shivers across the spine. So similar to the cry of a dragon, a screech of wretched agony at the loss of one that was more than a partner. Parent. Bonded. Soulmate. 

“My dear, lying cold—I will spend all my life for you as I swore on that day, so wait for me, my love.”

Those words a whisper, uttered through choked sobs as Harry lays the cooling body of Lord Voldemort now; instead, he falls into his grief.

And like demons drawn to sin, the darkness consumes him.

Veterans who’d survive the war would recount their horrors, would tell the story of the beast that ravaged the battlefield. The monster that cut across the Light ready to slaughter the child that was the beacon. But, they would add considering, some memories are hazy at this point—was there hesitation in Harry Potter’s last few moments? Hesitation of a human being knowing enough it would serve no purposes for another young life to be lost, the hesitation that ended up costing his own life; a ruby-hilted sword, pierced through the chest of the beast. 

This child ends up wondering how bad were these Dark Lords—he's been told (growing up, words whispered harshly into his ear) they were evil but all he hears after their deaths is the ringing of sadness, of the people not celebrating their liberation; the bell tolls in mourning, grieving for the deaths of two rulers that had been beloved by their people. 

This child grows used, kept under the reign of the Light and not knowing any better. This child grows to be a warrior, for a side that would cut down any that opposed them. This child grows up known as the prophecy boy, celebrated only by those he knows—and scorned by anyone else. This child grows frowned upon by fate.

The blood on his hands doesn’t feel righteous. 

It feels wrong.

* * *

_ Hate is a bottomless cup; I will pour and pour. _

― Euripides, Medea

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I'm active [on my Twitter](https://twitter.com/therealconnor60)! (´,,•ω•,,)♡
> 
> art by noni [@tomarrymort](https://twitter.com/tomarrymort) on twitter, send them love for the amazing work they did!
> 
> have these other sketches:  

> 
> more tidbits about this au if ya interested:  
✦ James and Lily are killed, but Tom is stopped before he can cast the curse on Harry, fleeing when Dumbledore arrives.  
✦ Harry never gets his signature lightning bolt scar.  
✦ Tom kills James and Lily out of panic and fear.  
✦ Tom does not become a depressed wraith for fourteen years.  
✦ Tom is hot.  
✦ Tom watches Dumbledore erect the blood wards around Privet Drive; it repels anyone with the Dark Mark, and intentions to cause death to Harry―so it repels him, his followers, and anyone he could possibly put under Imperio or threaten.  
✦ Tom ends up watching and cycling between his followers to watch over the house and listen to them report back, his urgency to kill the boy ends up diminishing each time he has to hear how Harry is clearly mistreated by his relatives.  
✦ Harry is five, intelligent, and all Tom has to do is invite Harry out of wards.  
✦ Tom is a good caretaker because he’s had experience dealing with younger ones in the orphanage, let’s also not forget this is the same man who’d have happily become a Professor if Dumbledore hadn’t told him to fuck off.  
✦ Harry actively chooses to keep his hair long, and maintain a more delicate feminine stature he can be mistaken as female at first glance.  
✦ Harry never goes to Hogwarts.  
✦ Harry never gets his Holly wand, it ends up breaking in Ollivander’s store in its cushion case when he turns seventeen without his knowledge.  
✦ Harry ends up very talented when it comes to wandless magic.  
✦ Harry is mostly known as the Ambassador as he often gets sent out either to other countries or to other magical communities, representing Magical Britain’s New World.  
✦ Britain actually thrives under Tom’s rule as the Dark Lord, but Light extremists would argue otherwise.  
✦ The second prophecy child is the world’s way of finding equilibrium where Harry was meant to grow and defeat the Dark Lord.  
✦ Perseus was meant to be the second ‘Golden Child’ but depending on the ending; he’s saved from that life by Harry and Tom, or he becomes a slave to it as the prophecy dictated.
> 
> inspiration is given due to my wife, 3am feral energy, and [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUeQm6XUPZg) look up the lyrics to get punched in the gut (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)


End file.
